


Attempted Apologies

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, all is not totally forgiven but fear not, geralt misses extremely obvious things, poor cirilla has to teach her dad how to be more observant, the emotionally stunted himbo finally attempts an apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: Only when Jaskier has pushed his body to carry him as far away from the witcher and his ward as he could did he allow himself to break down.There, in the dark of some rundown inn room he barely has enough coin to rent, does Jaskier cry.And oh, how he cries.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 75
Kudos: 1062





	Attempted Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> This one is kind of a beast but it's important to get through before the next part so bear with me.  
> Also Geralt is kinda really oblivious in this one. Like really, really oblivious.

Only when Jaskier has pushed his body to carry him as far away from the witcher and his ward as he could did he allow himself to break down. 

There, in the dark of some rundown inn room he barely has enough coin to rent, does Jaskier cry.

And oh, how he cries.

Harsh, ugly sobs rip their way through his chest as he mourns, barely able to draw in a breath between each cry before the floodgates open once again and leave him devastated in their wake.

The memory of the way Geralt had looked at him with such awe and thanked him for laying waste to the army that was sure to smother everything their hands touched rocked him to his core. Why could Geralt thank some nameless creature when he couldn’t bring himself to show so much as a hint of appreciation for any of the things _Jaskier_ had done for him during their travels together? Why could the witcher not bring himself to appreciate anything Jaskier did, but showed more emotion in thanking a strange creature in the total of five minutes it took to burn the Nilfgaard soldiers to the ground?

Jaskier pays no attention to the horrid twang his lute makes as he lets it drop to the ground before sinking down onto the edge of his lumpy mattress for the night and putting his face in his hands. 

What was he doing? He was a _dragon,_ for Melitele’s sake; an ancient creature who had avoided the slaughter of most of his brethren by simply being stronger and wiser. Hell, he had fallen in and out of love with mortals more times than he could count in the centuries he was alive. Loved and lost and loved again as he watched humanity grow and spread themselves among the Continent, but not once has he ever felt this soul crushing hopelessness that sucked the air from his lungs and threatened to cave in his rib cage. 

Even being disowned from his own family hadn’t made him feel like this.

Still, life moves on, and Jaskier knows he can’t spend the rest of his days wallowing in what could have been. So with a disgusting sniffle to will the tears and snot to stop flowing, he hastily rubs the ruined sleeve of his red doublet over his eyes before redressing in the only spare clean outfit he owned.

The first step to healing was to swallow his sorrow and remind himself of who he was no matter how it killed him inside. 

So with that in mind, it was all too easy to hastily fix his hair so it doesn’t resemble the product of twenty pairs of hands running through it and cleaning his face so the only tell that he had been crying was the red rim around his eyes. 

Perhaps playing would lift his spirits. Gods only know how long it had been since he strummed so much as a chord, though he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the Elven lute he had been gifted from the King of the Elves himself. Still, despite the slowly softening calluses on his fingers, Jaskier had yet to figure out a way to get his mind to stop composing. 

Day in and day out, his mind spat half formed lyrics at him no matter how hard he tried to think of anything else. 

The light drifting up from the floorboards and sound of laughter and clinking tankards in the tavern below soothe his ruffled feathers like a balm, and as he fixes the collar of his golden doublet and strides toward the door with more confidence than he feels, Jaskier decides he’s done pitying himself.

*

The only logical conclusion Geralt could come to was that someone had cursed Jaskier.

Somehow the bard had pissed off the wrong person and got himself hexed, which in all honesty, after having to save the man’s hide so many times from furious spouses and Gwent players who caught him cheating, he wasn’t surprised.

But the way Cirilla described him left a sour taste in his mouth. 

According to her, Jaskier was a wreck. She said his bright blue eyes were slitted like a cat’s instead of the normal round pupils Geralt knows; she says he was skinny, pale, and inexplicably covered head to toe in soot and char marks. Only once in his long life had he ever seen the bard let his appearance go like that. 

It had been just after saving Yennefer from the Djinn, after they had crawled out from the wreckage of the building left to crumble. Jaskier had looked so devastated standing beside a glaring Chireadan and it had been so baffling that Geralt hadn’t known what to do, so he did what he always does best when it comes to having to discuss feelings: nothing.

He said nothing to the bard and allowed the man to follow him like a shadow of the happy performer he used to be, almost like a ghost until some weeks later he managed to pick himself back up again and go back to his normal self. It had been unnerving then and the fact that Jaskier was in that state again tugged at his heartstrings. 

Geralt voices his thoughts to Ciri in a more condensed and gruff way, but she seems to think he is wrong. “You don’t get it, Geralt,” she insists, “He had that same hopeless look my grandmother used to say Eist gave her before she gave into his advances. Jaskier looked so _sad.”_

Rarely in a life as brutal as the one he leads has Geralt felt properly chided, but here he was, seated on a log while being lectured by a princess turned refugee about his wayward bard. They had followed the bard’s scent for as long as her feet could keep her going before they had to stop and make camp. 

If Geralt were traveling alone, he knows he would ignore his body’s needs and ride nonstop to find his bard.

“Really, Geralt,” Ciri sighs as she plops herself down onto the log beside him. She keeps her eyes on her lap as she fiddles with her fingers, the orange glow of the small fire he built up dancing over her pale locks and illuminating her face. “I feel it’s important to find him. He feels… it’s like I know him, like I’ve met him before. I don’t care if he’s cursed; we have to help him.”

“It might not be that simple, Ciri.” Geralt grunts as he stares longingly at his swords propped up against the tree roots Roach was currently ridding of weeds. The itch to sharpen the blades to give his hands something to do was intense. “Especially where he’s involved. That man attracts problems like a rotting corpse attracts a ghoul. Wouldn’t know self preservation if it slapped him across the face.”

Cirilla says nothing at first, simply staring at him until Geralt considers just going to sleep to get to Jaskier faster, before she offers him a soft smile as she plays with something in her pocket.

A smile he hasn’t seen on her face since the day they met in the woods. 

“You like him.”

Immediately, Geralt feels his mouth nearly drop in shock. If he didn’t have such control over every ounce of himself, he knows he would have looked as floored as he feels. As it is, all he can do is grunt out a “What.” as Cirilla’s smile grows wider.

“It’s okay to admit you feel things.” 

Is this what monsters feel like when he corners them? If he could blush, Geralt is sure his face would be bright red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you care. You looked gutted the moment I told you I talked with him.”

Dammit.

He was _not_ about to discuss this with his _child_ of all people. What he had said to Jaskier was beyond cruel, he knows that, and the way he treated the bard the last twenty years they had known each other was ignorant at best. 

Telling all of his mistakes to a girl whose trust he yearns for just sits wrong in his stomach.

So what if the first and last face he pictures before waking and slipping into unconsciousness is the devastated look Jaskier gave him up on that mountain? So what if his mind replays all the times the man laughed during their travels, throwing his head back to expose a tempting neck and crying with mirth over something Geralt said?

So what if he feels like his chest has been torn open by a cockatrice? So what if his hands shake when he thinks of Jaskier trying so hard to stay away from him, how long they’ve been apart?

Cirilla gives him a pitying look as he stares into the fire in front of them, not feeling a single bit of the warmth it was throwing off. She must see something in his face because her next question doesn’t have anything to do with the bard. The girl draws her knees to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees before offering an understanding look. 

“So how did you manage to take down a huge chunk of Nilfgaard’s army?”

*

Posada is the only town within a day’s riding distance as the sun slowly sinks behind large mountains. Roughing it in the woods another night wasn’t a problem for someone like Geralt, but one look at Cirilla and he knows he can't subject her to yet another night of sleeping in the dirt. 

Humans are fragile in a way he had long ago abandoned for mutagens and the Path, but for her, he would do anything within his power and then some.

They had been tracking Jaskier for an entire week at that point. Every time it seemed they were getting close, the scent of him would disappear into thin air and they were back to square one.

“We’ll be stopping here for the night.” Geralt says as the lights of the town come into view. The homes surrounding the main tavern look just as run down as they always tend to in the region they’re in, but the greenery surrounding them is as lush as ever.

Cirilla looks down in thinly veiled relief at the sound of his gruff voice from where she is perched on Roach, the witcher walking by his horse’s side with her reins in hand. “You mean I don’t have to sleep with a rock wedged into my spine again?”

“Keep it up and you’ll be rooming with Roach.”

“At least Roach won’t jab my spine while I try to sleep.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure.” 

The horse in question merely flicks her ears back and forth to whoever was speaking with a huff while Cirilla dismounts and watches Geralt march toward the stables and hand his horse over to a petrified looking stable boy, a silver crown being pressed into dirty hands. “She needs to be brushed down and given fresh hay. One hair out of place on her in the morning and you will live to regret it.”

It was said harshly, tone low and meant to inspire fear, but the stable boy clearly ignores Geralt’s words as a coin is pressed into his hands. At his enthusiastic nod and grateful smile, Cirilla pretends not to notice Geralt promise the lad another few coins if the boy spent some extra time pampering Roach.

“I think my blisters have blisters.” She complains in jest as Geralt leads them to the tavern, informed by the stable boy the inn also doubled as the town’s bar.

The stench of multiple humans coexisting in a small space hits him like a slap to his face when he opens the door, only centuries of training his every reflex allowing Geralt to catch himself from wrinkling his nose at the hints of piss and sweat wafting up from floorboards that looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned in at least a month.

It’s exactly the kind of place Jaskier would bitch about relentlessly but strum his lute to cheer the people up anyway.

And really, this isn’t the worst tavern he’s been to. Far from it in fact, but Geralt can’t stop the grumble that leaves his lips as Ciri leaves his side to purchase a room for the night from the innkeeper at the bar. 

Were he to ask for a room, he knows they would either be turned away or the rate would be doubled. Cirilla is a buffer between the mutant he knows he is and the humans who only show hospitality when he’s doing them a favor.

Ciri returns to their table quickly enough, rusty key in hand and a happy smile on her face. “I got one with one bed, but the innkeeper says they’re big and we don’t have that much coin anyway.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt replies as he pockets the key and leans back against the wall as the thundering footsteps of someone descending the stairs further into the building ring in his ears.

How humans ever thought they were stealthy was beyond him.

A barmaid weaving her way past them catches his attention long enough to order a bowl of stew for Cirilla and a mug of ale for himself, studiously ignoring the pitying glances she keeps sending the child when she thinks he can’t see. 

“Stew?” Cirilla wrinkles her nose as soon as the barmaid has taken their order and leaves, ignoring the little nudge Geralt gives her under the table with the toe of his boot. 

“Stew will keep you full for longer. Meat takes a while to work through your system.” He explains as the heavy walker trudges themself toward the front of the room, but Geralt pays them no mind.

Probably just some drunk looking for more ale anyway.

“But stew is gross and it’s all we’ve eaten for the past week.” Cirilla frowns.

Geralt cocks his head to the side and offers her his best approximation of a patient smile. “This one will have vegetables and spices.” It wasn’t like he carries bags of seasonings around with him to liven up whatever unfortunate animal he manages to catch and roast.

No, he hadn’t been the one to insist upon carrying it.

That had been Jaskier.

Cirilla studies him for a moment before letting out a sigh and hunching forward over the table. “I would eat the bark off a tree if it meant I could go to sleep in an actual bed tonight.”

“Hmm.”

A sharp clap from the front of the room rings loudly in his ears, the patrons around them quieting to see what was going on as they turn their eyes from their food and ale to the person demanding their attention.

“Good evening, fine people! I know you probably weren’t expecting a performance tonight, and _especially_ not from a bard of such renown, but fear not! I am here to lighten your night and bring smiles to your faces.” A masculine voice calls out, boyish and lilting in a way that was all too familiar.

Before Geralt could think better of it, his neck nearly snaps from the speed of how quick his eyes seek out the source of the familiar cadence.

And there, seating himself on a stool in front of the bar like he owned the entire tavern, is Jaskier.

A brittle imitation of a smile stretches across the bard’s lips as he slings his lute to his front and places his hands at their rightful places. “Now I know you’ve all heard my songs before, but tonight I’m hoping you’ll allow me to try out something I’ve been working on.”

Murmured agreements or disinterested snorts are his only answer and Jaskier seems to take it in stride, giving himself a moment to simply breathe before beginning to play.

_”Between harsh words and rotten ale,  
I met my one true love.”_

All at once, Geralt feels his breath being sucked from his lungs as a voice he had heard sing him to sleep after bad hunts, a voice that had teased him and gave him company, a voice that Geralt knew better than anyone else’s met his ears.

He would recognize that voice anywhere; a voice not a single other human on the Continent could ever hope to have.

The bard in question was sitting in front of the bar with his upper body hunched over his lute, none of the usual fanfare that preceded his usual performances anywhere to be seen. In its place sat a sullen man who kept his eyes closed as he focused on his instrument, the low and mourning voice he sang with a brand new sound to the witcher. 

_”With hair spun from silver and skin so pale,  
His hands and heart were rough.”_

After traveling with the other for so many years, sharing meals over a campfire and sharing a room when coin was low, Geralt believed himself to have a good memory of the songs in Jaskier’s repertoire. 

This one was new, as was the ache each lyric ignited in his chest.

The golden doublet the bard donned looked as though it had been put on in a hurry, some of the buttons down the front missing a hole or two and the collar looking wrinkled and lopsided. It wasn’t the put together look of the performer Geralt knew him to be. Still, something about how small Jaskier looked as he sang prompted the witcher to take a seat in the corner of the tavern, careful to keep Cirilla between himself and the door as he watched.

It took every ounce of self control not to rush to the bard and demand he explain the reasoning behind him getting cursed.

Gods, how he missed this man.

So much so in fact that the words the bard is singing don't truly register with the witcher; all he could focus on was the sound of the voice belonging to the man he regretted sending away with every fiber of his being, drinking up every last noise the bard makes like a starving man.

_For countless years I followed near,  
But your dearest I was not.  
Now I’m left to wander drear,  
My heart is set to rot.”_

Not a single patron paid Geralt any mind as they kept their attention on Jaskier, some even seeking out the hands of their loved ones or to their faces to ward away tears. 

Even Cirilla seemed to be entranced, her wide childlike eyes unmoving from the musician pouring his heart out into the most mournful ballad Geralt had ever heard from the man. Logically he knew the bard was capable of more than simple jigs like _Fishmonger’s Daughter,_ but knowing it and hearing it in person were two very different things.

It made his chest ache in a way it only did when concerning Jaskier.

_”I bled myself on sharp white fangs,  
Let my heart be torn by claws.  
And oh, my love, how my life did hang,  
From your cruel and callous jaws.”_

A tug on his gloved hand tore his attention away just long enough to see Cirilla’s hand gently resting on his own. “You have to talk to him.” She whispers during a break in the song, the melancholy notes from the Elven lute hanging heavy in the room. “He’s hurting so _badly_ Geralt, and no matter what you did or said to him, he deserves his side to be heard.”

The princess had a point, as much as Geralt doesn’t want to admit it. He had pushed Jaskier away and demanded to be left alone, yet had followed the bard himself during their time apart in an attempt to track him down and apologize.

It was all highly hypocritical; he was aware of that much, but being lectured into talking about his feelings by a child earned her an amused huff. “If he will speak to me.” Geralt whispered back, zeroing in on the quick swipe Jaskier made over his eyes to rid them of either sweat or tears.

The bard truly looked awful.

_”Now your heart is kept by another,  
A siren with amethyst eyes.”_

For the supposed graduate of Oxenfurt and mastery of languages, Jaskier could be quite straightforward when he wanted to be, and Geralt couldn’t hide the wince that crossed his face as the bard sang of Yennefer. She was the only being he knew of with purple eyes, and though she certainly held a piece of his heart, it was the Djinn wish that kept them bumping into each other; not love, like the bard assumed.

 _”Your dismissal tore my soul asunder,  
But still, for you it cries.”_

Muffled sobs and sniffles chime in from around the room, not a single patron making a sound to distract from the atmosphere Jaskier had set with his words and music alone. It was all terribly somber in a way the younger man would never have stood for in the past, and against his better judgement, Geralt focuses on the lyrics.

_”I know not what I did wrong,  
To make you hate me so.  
For all I’ve done for you in song,  
My pain’s the gold you sow.”_

The longer he listens, the longer Geralt wants to impale himself on his own swords. Had his words really done this much damage to a man who had shrugged them off for years?

It makes him vaguely nauseous. This man; this bright man overflowing with life was dimmed by Geralt being afraid of his developing feelings and turning to the sorceress for a distraction. Was hurt this deeply by every single wrong choice Geralt had made.

If someone were to smite him on the spot, Geralt knows he wouldn’t notice. Not with the way he was gripping his tankard hard enough to break the metal handle in an attempt to hold himself back from doing something stupid.

Slow and haunting notes from a lute like no other float through the room before Jaskier begins what must be the final verse, every pair of eyes glued to the bard as he sings.

_”Between harsh words and rotten ale,  
I met my one true love.  
Though ours is not a happy tale,  
The memory of you is enough.”_

The strumming ends abruptly with the last note of his song, that honeyed voice cracking over the word ‘love’ in a way that makes Geralt’s heart ache something fierce. Patrons clap and cheer in a way that usually makes the bard grin from ear to ear, exhausated and proud of himself. After a performance with such a positive reaction, Geralt knows Jaskier would then turn to where he was seated in the corner nursing a mug of ale and gloat about his performance. 

This Jaskier simply stands there with a lost expression as though he isn’t all there.

Fuck. He really messed this whole friendship thing up.

Wise eyes the color of a field at dawn turn to him and a small noise of sadness escapes between pink lips. “‘People linked by Destiny will always find each other.’” Cirilla quotes the words Geralt had heard so many times in his long life. Never has it sounded so weak and pleading as it does in this moment. “Why do you think we keep running into him? He obviously didn’t want to be found, this time or a week ago. He covered his tracks so well that even _you_ struggled to find him!”

She slams her hands on the wooden surface of the table loud enough that the couple sitting at one to their right glances over their shoulders to glare, only to whip their heads back around once realizing just who the girl is sitting next to. “He’s important; I can feel it.”

Geralt is still trying to digest everything when Cirilla gives him a sharp but well meaning kick to his knees underneath the table. _”Go,”_ she mouths at him as Jaskier leans down to pick up the few coins that had been tossed his way with a miserable sigh. 

It isn’t so much her words that cause him to nearly push over his chair in his haste to get to the other man as much as it’s his own desire, the knowledge that Jaskier is _here_ making his feet move until he’s standing in front of the blue eyed man, a mere few steps away as Jaskier finishes picking up the coins he’s earned and straightens up.

The second their gazes meet, Geralt lets out a harsh breath at the normal pupils encased in a familiar blue. Jaskier’s eyes are the same as they had always been; round and entirely human, framed by lashes that he knew Yennefer to be jealous of, though she would not admit it. Those eyes settled an ache in his chest he hadn’t realized was there.

Only for it to shatter and tear itself open again when Jaskier’s face drains of what little color it had and the man quickly makes an attempt to flee up the stairs.

His large hand is grasping the bard’s forearm before he realizes he is moving, halting the man’s retreat and fighting to ignore the stench of fear pouring off Jaskier in waves.

Since when has Jaskier ever been _afraid_ of him?

“Jas,” Geralt pleads in a soft tone. The full body shudder that goes through Jaskier doesn’t go unnoticed. “We need to talk.”

The tense muscles beneath his hand slowly shift as Jaskier turns to stare at Geralt for the first time in what feels like ages. Mistrust and suspicion cloud the bard’s normally open expression, those lips Geralt has heard spin tales parting to refuse him until the blue eyed man catches Cirilla’s gaze from where she steps over from behind the witcher and suddenly, like someone poked a pin in him, Jaskier deflates with a resigned sigh. “Fine.”

The sincerity in his voice is what Geralt clings to as he lets go with a grunt. Cirilla stares between the two of them before taking a hesitant step toward Jaskier, whose face softens the moment he notices her coming closer. 

“Good evening, Fiona. You are just as lovely as you were the first time I met you.” Jaskier says softly as Cirilla studies his face, her piercing emerald eyes taking in every inch of him before she seems to decide it’s really him and rushing forward to wrap her arms around his torso and bury her face in his stomach. 

Jaskier’s arms flail around himself for a moment in surprise before he shoots a wide eyed look at Geralt, who just shrugs as if to say ‘how was I supposed to know?’ and it’s all so familiar, like they hadn’t spent a single day apart. Jaskier carefully rests one palm on her upper back and cards the other through her hair for a moment before she pulls back.

“Jaskier!” Cirilla exclaims as she releases him to send a meaningful glance at Geralt. “We finally found you!”

And at that, Jaskier’s expression turns into one of guilt. “Ah, yes, well… about that.” He begins haltingly, fingering the seams of the lute strap across his chest as he drags his eyes away from Cirilla and up to Geralt.

“We need to talk.” Geralt tells her in a no nonsense tone, not once taking his eyes off Jaskier in fear the man would disappear if he so much as took his eyes off him for a second. “Go to our room for the night. Lock the door and do not let anyone in who is not me.”

Cirilla looks ready to argue, to insist she be present too, but Jaskier sets a gentle hand on her shoulder and nods. “It’s alright, little one. We have much to discuss.” Delicate blonde brows draw together in frustration for a moment before Cirilla relents with a sigh and moves around them to trudge her way up the stairs.

The moment she’s out of sight and Geralt hears the click of a lock being thrown, Jaskier’s previous smile maintained for Ciri drops and a blank expression overtakes his features. It looks wrong on the bard. “Well, you wanted to talk,” Jaskier flaps a hand over toward the stairs with a pointed look at the witcher. “Let us get this over with.”

*

The second the door closes with a soft click behind them, the atmosphere of the room turns heavy and stifling in an instant. The sight of the tense, broad golden clad shoulders in front of him do not make the situation any better. Jaskier does not move an inch, and if Geralt couldn’t hear the frantic beating of his heart, he would have thought the bard had died on the spot. 

Normally the other man is flitting around the room like some kind of besotted bird, inspecting everything and keeping up a running commentary.

To see him silent is unnerving.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt forces out through clenched teeth, unsure why he suddenly feels as though his life were in danger, adrenaline and dread mixing into a deadly cocktail in his gut.

It was just him and Jaskier in the room. Him and his barker; him and his friend. There was no threat here.

Yet the apprehension persisted.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you.” Geralt clarifies, hoping to get some kind of reaction. He had expected tears, some shouting, maybe even some threats, but this silence was not something he anticipated.

Or at least that was what he tells himself until Jaskier turns toward him with a look Geralt had never seen directed at him from the other man.

Jaskier was fire incarnate, hissing and spitting without limits as he rounded on the witcher, normally carefree expression nothing short of furious and for the first time in the past two years, Geralt is shocked to find himself almost _afraid_ of the bard. 

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Jaskier spits at him, an accusing finger pointed to his leather clad chest and shaking from the sheer emotion pouring out of him. “You _do not_ get to throw me aside as soon as someone better comes along and get to have me back two years after leaving me.”

This was so much worse than he feared it would be. “Jaskier-”

“Do you know what dwelled on that mountain, Geralt? What manner of monsters and thieves hid in the trees?”

Geralt had not sensed anything other than the corpse of the Hirikka left by Sir Eyck during his own descent down the mountain, and the thought of Jaskier stumbling into something dangerous stole the breath from his lungs. 

Through a dry mouth, Geralt speaks. “There wasn’t anything on that mountain other than the Hirikka.”

The look Jaskier gives him makes Geralt feel two feet tall; a feeling he is not used to experiencing, given his profession. “There was something worse than that. Up on the top of that mountain, realizations found me. They caught me when I was vulnerable and hurting. An old friend and I caught up and I was once again reminded just how little I matter to you.”

It isn’t the knowledge of his senses missing someone on top of the mountain with them that makes his blood run cold. 

It’s the way Jaskeir says ‘old friend’ as though he was _expecting_ whoever managed to escape his enhanced senses, the lack of fear when he speaks of this person.

“What a fool I was,” Jaskier continues, trembling hands run themselves through greasy, disheveled brown locks, tufts of hair sticking up every which way from the motion. It gives the man an unhinged look, like they were reaching a precipice and were about to fall off if one wrong move was made. “What a fool I was to follow you around like a lost puppy, begging for scraps of your attention and yearning to be _wanted_ by you, to be _appreciated_ as your friend!”

Every instinct is screaming at Geralt to keep quiet, to let the other say his piece before responding. But then again, words were never his forte, and he couldn’t stand allowing Jaskier to think that way a single second more. “I appreciated you.”

It’s a weak denial, and Geralt knows he made a mistake the second the words leave his lips.

“You _appreciated_ me?” Jaskier laughs, a hollow imitation of his usual bell like joy as he throws his arms out to his sides incredulously. “Tell me, dear witcher, how exactly did you show your appreciation? By telling me my voice was nothing but a fillingless pie? By abandoning me in village after village despite me being broke and unaware of where I was?”

Regret burned like wildfire through Geralt. The abandonment had been during the few first weeks of their travels when all the noise and pestering and _company_ got to be too much. Jaskier had always brushed it off with a laugh when they caught up to each other once again days later, simply calling Geralt an ‘old scamp’ and resuming his place beside Roach on the road.

Never would he have thought Jaskier had taken it to heart like this.

“Or was it how every time that sorceress showed her face, you dropped me wherever we were and followed her like a dog with a bone? Tell me, dear heart, was it the first or the seventh time she broke your heart and you came crawling back to me with insults and anger that made you realize you ‘appreciated’ me?”

There was nothing Geralt could say. 

Never would he have thought Jaskier had so much anger and resentment bottled up inside. The man wore his every emotion on his sleeve like an open book; how had he managed to hide twenty years of this without Geralt smelling it on him?

Still… “This has nothing to do with Yen.”

All at once, the heated fury that drew perfectly shaped brows into a nasty look of rage smooth out and a blank look overtakes Jaskier’s face. Blazing cornflower blue eyes dull and his expression shutters as though closing Geralt out for a moment before he speaks.

“You’re right, Geralt. This has nothing to do with Yennefer and everything having to do with your blatant disregard for my feelings and well being.”

Immediately, Geralt decides this is worse than the anger.

“So why did you decide to come find me? It couldn’t have been for that laughable excuse of an apology.”

One misstep and Geralt knew there would be no turning back from this, no fixing it ten or twenty years down the line. This had to be handled carefully, the fragile thread of fate around the both of them being held together by large, calloused hands made to kill. 

He had to tread lightly here. Jaskier was like a ticking bomb, and for all the bombs Lambert had thrown at him during training, he doubted any concoction his brother could create would invoke the sheer devastation Jaskier would be able to sow in the wake of his anger.

“You once asked me to travel to the coast with you.” Geralt begins haltingly as he slowly closes the distance between them, careful to move slowly so as to not spook Jaskier. “You asked me to make a difficult decision when I was hurting, when I was so confused about everything in my life and just wanted a moment of silence to sort it out.”

Piercing baby blue eyes bore into him like a physical touch but no words of protest come from the bard, so Geralt takes that as his cue to keep talking. 

“I… haven’t had a travel companion who wasn’t a horse in my entire life on the Path. You were annoying, loud, and so reckless it made me constipated for a while from all the stress. But Jaskier, please, you have to understand that everything was new to me.” 

Those eyes he missed so badly were still guarded, hard from the innumerable injustices Geralt had inflicted upon him, there was a flicker of something like hope in his soulful irises that kept the witcher going. 

“I was harsh and cruel to you when I shouldn’t have been. You did not deserve a word of it, and it took you leaving my side for me to realize that.” How could the bard be so expressive all the time? This whole situation was so draining Geralt honestly didn’t know how much longer he could stand there without keeling over. Still, he steeled himself and pushed onward. “Jaskier, you are the best friend I’ve ever had, and from the bottom of my heart, I apologize for every wrong I’ve committed when it comes to you. I lashed out in a fit of misplaced anger and I deeply regret it.”

Not a word was said between them as Geralt watched Jaskier digest his words, lithe but deceptively strong arms slowly uncrossing and hanging by his side as the man heaved a shuddering sigh and tossed his head back to glare at the ceiling for a moment. “Could you not have come to that conclusion two years earlier?” 

The words were harsh but the undertone of the old Jaskier lay underneath, teasing and soft.

A hum leaves Geralt’s throat as he forces himself to verbalize what he’s feeling before the chance is gone. “I’m not exactly known for being self aware.”

That earns a fragile smile from the bard. It’s nothing more than a small twitch at the corner of his lips, but to Geralt, it means the world.

“I once told you I was working out what pleases me,” Jaskier sighs as he lets himself fall onto the edge of the bed and fiddle with his fingers between his knees. “I lied to you that day. I had already worked out what pleases me long before that moment.” Eyes that spoke of many sleepless nights focused on picking at the skin at the edge of his thumbnail, refusing to meet the witcher’s eyes. “Being with _you_ is what pleases me, no matter what that entails. I just...”

Geralt stays standing in the middle of the room where Jaskier had been a minute before, unwilling to move and break whatever spell was making this scenario he dreamed about for two years actually _go well._

“I just wish you would see in yourself what I see in you.” Jaskier’s words are nothing more than a whisper in the air. “You above all else deserve love and devotion, no matter who gives it to you.”

More and more of the old Jaskier is starting to shine through this depressed version of him, and Geralt could feel his body finally begin to relax despite the topic he had avoided discussing with the blue eyed man for years. 

Anything was better than that cold indifference from earlier.

“Jaskier…” Geralt warns as he slowly approaches the single wooden chair across from the bed Jaskier remains perched on and seats himself there, careful to not break eye contact. 

Jaskier scoffs in response. “Hmm.” 

The tension in Jaskier’s rigid shoulders hasn’t gone away completely. His eyes haven’t quite softened in the way Geralt knows they do when the other is truly content, but he figures this is as good a time as any to ask about what has been nagging at him for the last week. “Now will you please tell me who cursed you? Ciri said your eyes weren’t how they normally are, and I would very much like to find the person responsible.”

The light leaves Jaskier’s face like he had been slapped. “ _Cursed?_ ” He echoes in a flat voice as he leans away from Geralt to stare at him. “You tracked me down and apologized because you think I’m _cursed?_ ”

Alarms began to blare in Geralt’s head, a feeling not unlike missing a step when running down a set of stairs sinking into his gut. “What? No, Jas-”

A laugh like rocks being scraped over sandpaper tore themselves from between the musician's lips as Jaskier slowly shook his head. “Unbelievable. Just when I thought you finally understood what I’ve been telling you for years.”

If he were able to, Geralt would have broken into a cold sweat as any hope of reconciling with Jaskier all but flew from his grasp. 

“Get out, Geralt. Leave this room and go back to your Child Surprise.”

It is a dismissal as clear as day, yet Geralt can’t bring himself to move from the wooden chair. He is hyper focused on everything; the rapid sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, the shuffling of sheets in the room beside them; the humming of patrons downstairs trying to reenact the somber song Jaskier had played not twenty minutes ago.

Geralt stills in his aborted attempt to save the situation as he remembers the song. There were so many thoughts warring with each other in his head, each picking the other apart and causing a pounding in his temples not unlike when his toxicity reaches dangerous levels.

“The song,” He says in a rush, hating how Jaskier suddenly looks more vulnerable than upset as he pushes himself from the bed and begins pacing around the cramped room, the gold doublet still terribly out of sorts. “That song you just performed. Who was it about?”

It’s a feeble attempt to redirect the conversation and Geralt knows Jaskier isn’t falling for it as the musician scrubs a hand over his face, the bags under his eyes more prominent now as he pales further. “You are unbelievable. Absolutely, positively thick headed.” Jaskier points to his door and straightens his back. “Please leave. I am in no mood for this right now. Go back to Cirilla and we will finish this in the morning. I have much to think about.”

Geralt does not want to leave. Doesn't want to leave Jaskier’s side now that every single thing in his life finally feels _right,_ but knows he has to. That he has to give Jaskier his wish if he is to truly make it up to him.

He has to make this right.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! The next part of the story should be up in a few days. Also I made up that song poem thing on the spot so please go easy on me haha


End file.
